The Ladybug and the Spider
by Iwilo
Summary: I'wilo enjoys some alone time.


He sits on a grassy knoll that overlooks the river, near the top of a waterfall. The grass beneath him is cool, soft and springy. A ladybug lands on his upper arm and hurries down toward his wrist. He lifts his hand, the little orange beetle's carapace shining in the early morning sun and beneath the troll's amused gaze.

Birds chirp in all of the nearby trees; a raucous chorus of voices, some singing merrily, others more plaintive and squawking. A large form rises up and breaks the surface at the bottom of the fall. With a hissing grunt, the massive crocolisk tucks all six of its clawed legs in and wiggles its scaly tail in a serpentine manner, propelling itself further downriver and disappearing around a bend. He watches the reptilian form retreat into the distance. When it is gone, he slowly lets his gaze wander back along the opposite shore, quietly drinking in the colorful scene with crimson eyes. He notes every minute detail, the splash of a school of tiny minnow in the reeds along the shore... the way the light plays across the surface of the rippling water... an array of flowers atop the opposite bank, dazzling as they are back lit by the rising sun... the ladybug on the back of his wrist.

Pursing his full lips, he gently blows on the little beetle until it grudgingly reveals translucent black wings and takes to the air, spinning clumsily before bouncing away on the breeze - and lands in the shallow water a few yards in front of him. With a grunt and a roll of the eyes, he pushes off of the soft grass to his feet and takes a step toward the floundering beetle, intent on rescuing the clumsy thing.

Pop! The ladybug vanishes into the mouth of a brilliantly colored blue and gold sunfish. The fish does several victorious spins before darting off into deeper water.

I'wilo blinks several times, his hand absently rubbing the back of his neck. "N'topa ah-sah m'balo ah-saha'an", he sighs. The saying, common to his people, loosely translated: "So it goes". With a shake of his head, he returns to his spot in the shade and settles down next to where a soft deer skin is spread out on a flat part of the ground. An empty mortar and pestle rest on the skin, covered in a thin coating of black juice to match the dark stains on the troll's hands. The stems of several stripped flowers are piled next to the mortar. A little brown ant wends its way along a crumpled flower stem before crawling up the side of the stone bowl. It touches the juice with its antenna and, apparently displeased with what it finds, turns and rushes off, dropping into the grass.

A wide glass jar sits next to the bowl, half-full of the dark liquid. Next to the jar are several long, sharp looking needles of varying diameters, a pile of soft, clean woolen squares, a pile of bone and metal nick-knacks, and a tangle of flat leather cords. He smooths the edges of the skin, careful not to knock over the jar, with a delicacy belied by his massive, two-fingered hands. His thick fingers move with surprising nimbleness as he picks through the needles, choosing one that is several inches long and easily thick enough, at its widest point, to sew leather without breaking. A bowl of clean water rests alongside the other supplies.

He wears a thin, open vest of deepest violet and a pair of short black pants. Spreading the vest, needle still held between finger and thumb, he shrugs it over his well-muscled shoulders and lets it drop to the ground. As a troll, he is mostly covered in a near-invisible, sparse coat of soft velvety fur. The fur is short and see-through, visible only in profile and back lit. It lends his skin a satiny feel. His chest, however is completely devoid of fuzz. Years of poking needles into the flesh there nearly every single day have made it unnecessary for him to remove any fur before touching up his tattoo. The tattoo is simple and black, the symmetry perfect. It depicts a large spider. The spider's legs reach across his chest and the rear legs stretch toward his long, lean abdomen, stopping inches short of his small navel. He runs a hand over the spider, feeling the way the legs are raised with scar tissue.

Dipping the end of the needle into the ink with a steady hand, he pushes it deep into his chest. The needle must go far deeper than a human or orc's flesh would require for the ink to take. Given the regenerative properties of trolls, it's not surprising that he has to dig into his skin and deposit ink there so often. Were he to let a week or so pass without touching up the decoration, it would surely heal with hardly any scar tissue, leaving a shadow of the much-loved tattoo. The spiritual significance of this routine ceremony is purely personal. There is no law dictating that his people must do this. In fact, none of his people have ever done this that he knows of. It's for his personal vanity. The pain is nothing compared with the satisfaction he feels at seeing the task finished. He's grown accustomed to the sting of the needle as it pierces his skin, and the deeper ache as he pushes it further in, spinning the needle to insure that the ink stays.

After gathering ink on the needle and piercing himself several times, he reaches out with his right hand and uses his thumb to separate one piece of cloth from the pile. He works quietly, wiping at the blood and excess ink when it begins to obscure the tattoo beneath. He dips the corner of the cloth into the bowl of water from time to time. The water quickly becomes blue from the ink, purple as his blood mixes with it... Over time it appears nearly black. He switches cloths as they become soiled to the point that they only smear the bloody ink around on his skin.

In the space of an hour, he has gone over the entire tattoo. He drops the needle and sifts through the pile with his left hand, his right pressing a fresh, damp cloth to a spot on his lower chest that continues to stubbornly ooze blood. With little deliberation, he draws forth a thinner needle, mumbling distractedly, "Aha saats ah ilolah pi'isa". He returns to work, deftly maneuvering the needle to smooth out the lines of the legs and spinnerets. He fills in the small spaces where the ink is blue, coloring it to a dark, uniform pitch.

Years of practice are evident in his quick, precise movements. His right hand dips the cloth in water, dabbing away quickly, seeming to move independently from the left, which continues to quickly dip into the ink and pierce his skin rapidly. His movements are smooth and fast, his eyes never leaving his chest even as one hand or the other darts out to gather water or ink.

Given the depth the needles dig to, each hole bleeds very briefly. When he has finished, he nods at the perfect image, speaking quietly in his non-native tongue, "Daht beh good. Pehfect." He takes a deep breath and leans back on his hands, looking around at the lovely scenery. He feels and caresses the grass with his stained hands. The skin on his chest is already noticeably healed, a few small scabs of dried blood dotting it before he brushes them away to reveal only slight scar tissue.

The sun has risen higher and his shady spot is quickly being overtaken by its growing light. Shrugging and taking a deep breath, the spider expanding as he fills his lungs with fresh air and then lets it out in a contented sigh, he stands and lowers himself to a stoop over the deerskin. After gathering his supplies and rinsing them clean, he buries the spent cloths in the ground. Taking care to push the earth back into place over the cloths, he leaves the area as he found it, but for a few dark blue stains and some flattened grass where his heavy form had rested. I'wilo carefully folds the cloth, stacking the bowls and placing the empty jar inside, the pestle clinking against the glass. He has rubbed some of the bloody ink into the leather cord and sets it aside. Later, he will find another satisfactory spot and make his necklaces and bracelets... the little charms he sometimes hangs from his tusks. And j'jua pouches which his most trusted friend will infuse with the appropriate energies or warding spells.

He makes a mental note to stop in Dalaran and purchase some colorfully frosted cupcakes before visiting the druid. I'wilo believes that all great minds belong to eccentrics; some, like his friend, being more "off" than others.

Having put his tools back in order, he strips off his thin pants, folding them slowly and placing them on top of the discarded vest. He eyes his orderly possessions as he rises from his seat, his deeply curved spine straightening and his naturally hunched shoulders pushing down and back. I'wilo turns, the sun making his fuchsia-dyed mohawk glow as he faces the river. With his thick thumb and forefinger, he pinches a hard, green sphere from a nearby flowering plant - a large, unopened bud.

With a crooked grin, his upper right lip curling mischievously as he eyes the river, he flicks the bud into the shallows. The rogue sunfish returns, pausing just as it bumps the object with its lips. It tilts sideways and inspects the disappointingly inedible object. The fish's dorsal fin rises in alarm as a huge shadow suddenly looms above. It swims off, breaking the surface several times in its panicky retreat.

Letting loose with a joyous cry, I'wilo sprints through the rocky shallows and leaps, his legs kicking in midair as he plunges into a deep, swirling pool. His long, lean form disappears into the depths, his bright mohawk swallowed last beneath the shining surface. The flower bud pops up and spins once, caught in the tiny whirlpool the troll has left in his wake. It bobs across the water, gaining speed until it shoots off the top of the waterfall and tumbles into the churning white river beneath. A ladybug lands on the lip of the glass jar and runs along the edge before revealing its wings and taking to the cloudless sky.

So there you have it. It's a quick introduction to I'wilo the troll. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Just a quick I typed out, when I was in a peaceful mood. High on life and wanted to share the feeling. Hope I nailed it. :O Constructive criticism always welcome and appreciated.

Play on!


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